


Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

by valantha



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hot Chocolate, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:38:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4765247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melinda May and Phil Coulson are working at the Triskelion and living in D.C. when the Snowpocalypse hits and cripples D.C. Obviously, their first thoughts are for one another, obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SYM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SYM/gifts).



> This one-shot is for SYM whose wedding is tomorrow. Congratulations SYM!!! May your wedding day go smoothly (without rain) and your marriage go even better (with enough rain for things to grow properly)!

Melinda curled up underneath her grandmother’s quilt watching the meteorologists talk of ‘the storm of the century’ and ‘Snowmageddon’. The quilt was worn, practically threadbare in one corner, but still warm and very, very comforting. If Melinda closed her eyes and really concentrated she could still smell the special jasmine scent of her grandmother’s house.

The over-hyped babble and scrolling info bars of the News were another, different sort of comfort, the comfort of predictability.

Just as a hastily-flown in Minnesotan was discussing the dangers of driving in the snow – filler for the every-fifteen minute weather updates – Melinda’s television, and overhead lighting clicked off. A power outage. Ugh.

Melinda turned off the TV and turned off and unplugged her work laptop (to protect it against any power surges). Her living room was gloomy, with only the natural light coming in the windows from the grey and gloomy sky, but it was enough. Her apartment was on the fifth floor of an eight-story apartment complex just south of D.C., and was fairly well insulated. And besides, she had a gas stove, which as long as she was careful, could keep her pretty warm.

**_Phil!_ **

Phil on the other hand lived in a top-floor studio overlooking the Potomac, and he had trouble keeping that glass-enclosed icebox warm (or cool depending on the season) under the best conditions. Also he had a slick induction stove, which would be next to useless without electricity.

She should check on him. And take him some supplies. Just in case.

Melinda grabbed her Go Bag from her coat-closet and began sorting through the contents. Her ultralight isobutene/propane stove and backup fuel canister would stay in the bag, of course. She would also keep all of the various fire-starting tools, knives, and the first aid kit. They were a bit much, but better safe than sorry. She kept the emergency radio, flashlight, and deck of cards as well.

She did, however, take out all of the water filtration stuff. It would take significantly more than three feet of snow to disable the metro area water treatment plants.

She debated the freeze-dried backpacking food –- Phil would have enough simple things likes cans of soup or pasta to get them through the storm, but then again he might only have cans of spaghettiOs. His nostalgia for the foods of his childhood was practically pathological. She kept them in the bag. Keeping the enamel camping cup stuffed with bags of tea –- _good_ tea -– was non-negotiable. She readjusted her bag and threw a handful of single-serve packs of hot cocoa and instant oatmeal on top.

She pulled a waterproof cover over her pack and then went to get dressed for the trek. She dressed in layers. Her favorite synthetic long underwear and thick wool socks served as the base layer. She had to do a bit of improving with multiple layers of trash bags to replace snow boots, but in less than 15 minutes she was ready to walk the almost-two miles to Phil’s apartment.

When the Blue and Yellow lines were running, Phil’s place was 10 minutes away, but now, Melinda would be lucky to get there in an hour. But there was no time like the present. She pulled on her Go Bag and clumped down the four flights of stairs, through the apartment lobby, and out into the winter wonderland.

As she had known, more than 30 inches of snow covered everything as far as her eyes could see. As she had expected, no one had shoveled the sidewalks; however, the major thoroughfares, such as Mt. Vernon Ave, had been cleared and only had a few inches of slush. Due to the State of Emergency, very few vehicles were out on the roads. Melinda easily chose the path of least resistance.

It took Melinda nearly 45 minutes to reach the Crystal City metro stop –- Phil’s metro stop –- but she kept going.

A few minutes after she had past the closed metro stop she heard an incredulous voice carry across the street, “Melinda?”

Melinda clomped over to the well-bundled form with Phil’s voice.

“What are you doing here?” Phil asked concerned.

“I wanted to see if you were okay. That apartment of yours is a death-trap.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” Phil asked, now piqued.

Melinda sniffed in reply. There were some things one just did for one’s partner, and that did _not_ need to be put into words.

“You’ve got a broken ankle for god’s sake and are supposed to be resting, not trudging across the whole state of Virginia! And why didn’t you pick up your cellphone?”

Melinda inclined her head slightly in embarrassment and Phil just shook his head.

“Well, let’s get you back to your apartment,” Phil muttered.

Sill confrontational, Melinda asked, “Why, we’re closer to your place?”

“’Cause it’s freaking cold, you have a gas stove, and obviously I need to stick around and make sure you don’t overexert yourself and shovel all the sidewalks in the city with a broken ankle.”

Melinda snorted but started trudging back the way she came.

Their walk was fairly uneventful. They had to scramble up out of the street three times: once for a snowplow, and twice for fire trucks on their way to an emergency of some sort. Each time an unencumbered Phil was first up the snow-bank, each time he offered Melinda his hand, and each time she sniffed at it and scrambled up unassisted. She may have been foolish enough not to check her cellphone, or call ahead, but she wasn’t a _complete_ invalid.

They made it back to Melinda’s apartment building with the minimum of (verbal) communication, but Phil absolutely refused to let Melinda carry an Amazon package up four flights of stairs in addition to her pack (which he right knew would have been futile to try to relieve her of).

Melinda cursed meddling males the whole way up, but after they removed their sodden outerwear, she allowed Phil to untie the waterproofing plastic bags from around her foot brace. He carefully undid the four Velcro straps and hissed in sympathy when he pulled off the boot only to reveal her freshly swollen, red-black-and-blue ankle.

Melinda had been biting her lip since he released the second-to-last strap. The mild compression of the brace had masked much of the pain. She _had_ re-injured her ankle.

Phil _tsk-_ ed like the mother hen his was, but promptly grabbed a plastic baggie from Melinda’s kitchen and popped outside to grab some snow rather than risk opening her freezer and let the cold out.

Melinda hobbled to her couch and propped her leg up. She prepared herself to listen to Phil’s chiding without complaint. She deserved it.

Phil was back in a trice and bound the makeshift icepack to Melinda’s now-throbbing ankle. He used a discarded sweater as both bandage and thermal insulator. Much to Melinda’s surprise, he didn’t nag her ear off.

He did however ask where her Percocet was.

Gratefully she popped a white pill when Phil handed her the orange bottle. Melinda lay back and did some breathing exercises while waiting for the medication to take effect. Meanwhile, Phil puttered around cleaning up, hanging gloves and hats to dry. He piled the discarded water-purification material beside the Go Bag with only a single raised eyebrow of a remark. Melinda pretended not to notice him and cuddled into her grandmother’s quilt.

Once Melinda’s foyer/living room was up to Phil’s idea of snuff (which was actually pretty decent) he rummaged around Melinda’s kitchen, lit a burner on her stove by hand, and whipped up a pretty mean batch of hot cocoa with extra marshmallows.

Melinda saw Phil approaching with two mugs of happiness and sat up, shifting her bum leg (no longer being iced) to the coffee table to make room for Phil.

Phil handed Melinda her favorite mug –- a monstrous and sort of lopsided vessel, but one she had thrown herself –- and settled in beside her.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes and overall attitude imbuing far more into the statement than just thanks for the cocoa.

“You’re welcome,” Phil replied with a soft smile, “And thank you, you silly goon.”

Melinda restrained herself to a small quirk of her lip and pulled her grandmother’s quilt over Phil’s shoulders. They could share.

Phil transferred his mug to his life hand and wrapped his right arm around Melinda. She froze for a second, maybe two, before leaning in to his embrace. His hand was toasty from the cocoa.

“I’m glad you were looking out for me,” Phil said, “Even though you didn’t answer your cellphone.”

“Me too,” said Melinda before taking a swig of Phil’s delicious cocoa.

It was nice just _being_ with Phil, though that could have been the Percocet too.


End file.
